


And so, he fell (through the cracks)

by AshLantern



Category: Assassin's Creed - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types, The Avengers - Ambiguous Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Crossovers & Fandom Fusions, Desmond has no idea what he's doing, Dimension Travel, Everyone's sassy, Fury is a spoilsport, Gen, Howard Stark's A+ Parenting, Mostly Gen, My First Fanfic, Natasha Romanov is So Done, Neither does Tony, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Tony Stark Has A Heart, Unreliable Narrator, Video Game Mechanics, What Have I Done, messed up timeline, no beta we die like men
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-15
Updated: 2020-01-12
Packaged: 2020-09-01 16:09:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,044
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20260837
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AshLantern/pseuds/AshLantern
Summary: Desmond wakes alone on cold asphalt, hard pebbles digging into his white hoodie.He is alive.He shouldn’t be alive.The Eye was supposed to kill him, leave his body burning in the temple. Not… not this. But the chill of the air on his skin, the stinging of the cuts on his face, was far from an illusion.(In which Desmond Miles, after the temple fiasco, wakes up in a world of superheroes. Alone.)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I've been reading on AO3 for a while now, and I've finally wrangled the courage to post something I've written. 
> 
> I've never actually played the games through, so some suggestions would be great. 
> 
> why did i do this?????
> 
> (the timelines very messed up--takes place after first movie, but sort-of disregards the rest? but Peter's there? I give up)

Desmond wakes alone on cold asphalt, hard pebbles digging into his white hoodie.

It is pure, unadulterated shock lacing his system when his eyes snap open, and no, it wasn’t what he thought death would be like.

It isn’t the absence of heat, or decidedly not smooth stone that jolts him to attention: it is the dull ache lacing his right hand, burning where it touched the ground.

He grunts, using his good hand to prop his weak body up. All limbs seemed intact, omitting the arm. His hidden blades were still strapped to his arms, much to his relief.

Pale cream light glints softly against the wet stones of the asphalt, stretching far into the distance in a dark ribbon frosted in diamonds. The night is quiet, only faint whispers of grass threading through crisp midnight air, muted emerald and opal flickers in moonlight. There’s a tranquility much foreign in his own life in the moon.

As he does silent inventory, the magnitude of his situation makes itself known.

He is alive.

He shouldn’t be alive.

The Eye was supposed to kill him, leave his body burning in the temple. Not… not this. But the chill of the air on his skin, the stinging of the cuts on his face, was far from an illusion.

For three seconds, he lets himself hope, eyes pointing towards the shimmering light of the distant skyline.

_Wait for me._

_ \-----_

Shit, looks like there's no turning back.

As it turns out, Desmond isn’t going home. In New York city’s library, he combs through the internet with a finesse learned from—yours truly—Juno. Her attacks weren’t completely useless, at least.

Everything on the internet suggests this is a different dimension, if that was somehow possible. Abstergo, to his immense relief, does not exist here. Instead, there’s Stark Industries, a former weapons manufacturer turned eco-tech energy giant.

It doesn’t reassure him from what he found next: apparently, this dimension allowed _heroes _or _vigilantes_, idiotic people dressed in skintight spandex and breaking several hundred laws at once.

The Avengers, they called themselves.

He calls bullshit.

Desmond meets multiple firewalls in his inquiry, but they aren’t anything difficult to break and seal after. Apparently, there’s also a secret government organization called SHIELD, something about strategic homeland something something. The Avengers had been formed through their request.

It’s probably important, but he can’t find it in himself to delve deeper, mind spinning through scenario after scenario.

Desmond forges himself a shiny new identity through channeling his inner Shaun, keeping his original name (no one knew who he was anyway). It isn’t sound work, but it would hold against heavy digging. Now, he’s Desmond Miles, the runaway who became a bartender, his backstory an eerie parallel to his original life.

Here, there wasn’t anything to tie him. Anything to live for. If Abstergo doesn’t exist, then the Brotherhood most likely wouldn’t either—his searches for Rebecca, Shaun, and Lucy have come up inconclusive. Altair never existed, neither did Ezio. But Leonardo did, though he suspects the renaissance went slightly differently here, if it ever happened at all.

But for the most part, this world was almost the same as his old one. 

‘Old one’, Desmond thinks, because this was the new, unsettling reality. He can't tell what he's feeling, but it's mainly resignation.

Shaking his head, he leaves the jittery scrutiny of the librarian (he couldn’t blame her: he must’ve looked like a half-crazed hobo) and steps into the midday sun, squinting slightly. 

As Desmond pushes through the sparse, then milling crowds of the bustling city, people cast him strange looks. Following their eyesight, he looks down.

His pants are barely covering his modesty, jeans torn and ripped in ways unknown.

New dimension or not, _pants_ came first.

\-----

20 minutes later and a fair bit of pick pocketing, Desmond leaves the clothes store feeling refreshed in his new white hoodie and suspiciously tight jeans. Not that he had complained, but the sales lady was terrifying in a Rebecca way, forcing heaps of clothing on him to try. It was hard not the notice the constant gaze at his butt, and harder not to notice how the pants got tighter and tighter.

Thank God Desmond was able to escape, even if it meant sacrificing mobility.

His hand trembled the slightest as he pulled a leather glove over it as an afterthought, walking slowly along the streets. Next logical course of action seemed to be getting a job: pick-pocketing and stealing were only short-term methods.

It was time to go job hunting again.

It is as painful as he remembered it.

\-----

It’s almost nostalgic when Desmond ends up a bartender again, in the big apple.

Naturally, he had tried to find Bad Weather again, but…it didn’t exist. So he had tried to ignore the pain in his chest, and asked around the sketchier parts of town. Ezio’s experience in dealing with shady figures came in handy, and he landed a job in a somehow shadier bar called “Bad-ish Weather”.

What the fuck is this plagiarism. But it’s completely different, Asiatic themed rather than smooth leather, and he thought he’d deal.

The manager of the bar (big Japanese guy, with yakuza style tattoos) had taken one look at him, before hiring him no questions asked. By now, his hand is healing nicely, and while it hurt, it wouldn’t affect his productivity. shouldn't.

Desmond should probably be suspicious, but after a demo that refreshed his memory, the manager stopped looking at him with scornful eyes. He was hired an hour ago.

An hour ago, he was an idiot.

It’s kind of stupid, how he didn’t bother with any background checks to the place. As it turns out, it’s a damn daycare for mercenaries and mafia. In Eagle vision, almost every ‘patron’ glows a blinding red, or at least a pale red. His eyes catch money(gold?) discreetly changing hands, code disguised in conversation, and he _wants to fucking die._

Right when he’s escaped his world, he’s in another.

At least being a bartender often means being invisible, as well as a messenger. Even though he hasn’t been here long, the amount of information he’s gleaned is fairly sizable.

The loud, extravagant-looking man in the far booth is the heir of the largest drug-dealer in America. That sly-looking Chinese woman in silk is the daughter of the man who owns a massive part of the black market. Those twins in the back corner are about die from overdose.

He can’t help but wonder the shoddy taste of these big-shots, if they hang out in a place called Bad-ish Weather. Maybe it’s because of the trash name they stay, because no one expects them here. He forces himself into mingling with some of them, picking up bits and pieces of scattered information.

He’s so fucking tired.

Desmond slams a drink (a cocktail of who-knows-what, an apparent specialty) in front of this lady who’s making disturbing eyes at him and sets to work mixing a drink for the sketchy looking man at the far end of the bar. Granted, everyone here looks sketchy, but at least he shows white. For the most part.

In fact, the man looks disturbingly nervous, which, while the normal reaction to the murders and soul-selling in the background, is frankly suspicious in this setting. His expensive, well-pressed suit is worn confidently, and the luxury watch on his wrist isn’t touched: he is obviously used to the money he owns.

One of the upper-class families or businesses in New York, then, judging by the accent. This certainly narrowed things down. And from his discomfort, the legal side. There are also many wary eyes pinned on the man, subtle shifts in the atmosphere at any move he made—so maybe a righteous, crime fighting (ew, as Rebecca would say) rich family.

Desmond’s starting to feel familiar, and he doesn’t like it.

The man slowly eases into the mood but is still tense. It doesn’t show well, but Desmond can catch the frenetic tapping of his fingers, and the frequent adjustment of his glasses past his smile.

The middle-aged man is also mumbling something and gesticulating into thin air, but it’s not Desmond’s business.

Until it is.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> kept thinking my work was trash, so kept revising it. hopefully, it's not as trashy.

One second Desmond’s tossing cocktail shakers into the air, and the next the entire wall to his right has collapsed, a massive green _thing _that could be Abstergo’s wet dream for domination crushing furniture like paper. An arrow lodges itself next to the exit, stopping the fleeing socialites, screaming and dust filling the air.

Desmond takes a second to appreciate the skill of the archer (thanks, Connor), before the rich-but-nervous guy is suddenly encased in blinding red and yellow metal, pale glow at the chest. The armour fires nets, as a red-headed blur shoots past them to easily dispatch the thugs protecting those rich kids with efficient, clean moves.

Desmond watches it all with a bland expression, body shifting the slightest if only to dodge rubble. In minutes, the battle is over. The cops arrive with flashing lights, and with saddening ease that only comes through practice, arrests the flailing victims trapped under nets.

He doesn’t flinch as a man dressed in black comes swinging through, shooting arrows with pinpoint accuracy. A walking flag charges past him, further blocking the exit that is not a caved wall with a stupidly eye-catching shield.

He wonders briefly how many laws are being broken, not that he can judge.

He takes advantage of the chaos to pickpocket trinkets and cash worth thousands in dollars and slips easily through the crowd while plastering a look of fake terror. He’s out of the pub quick, and the second he’s out of sight his face turns bland again. The alleyway is nicely quiet and had a fantastic view of the operation happening not far away.

Desmond watches with interest as the police break out handcuffs, dragging the now disgraced rich people into cars. He doesn’t doubt they’ll be out of jail in hours, what with their backgrounds anyway, so why are they struggling?

He shrugs, preparing to go back to job hunting. This must be a new record.

Then nervous guy (Iron Man) flies back next to him, and hands him a business card.

“Um.” Desmond says, eloquently, hand automatically receiving the card.

“Gotta say,” the voice filters through metal, “That was a shitty good drink. If you’re looking for work, which I don’t doubt,” He casts a pointed look (not that Desmond could actually see his eyes) around him, “You’re always welcome at Stark Tower.”

Iron Man gives a lazy salute, before flying off to join his friends(?). The red one gives Desmond a wary look and tells nervous guy what seems to be a warning that is brushed off with uncanny ease.

Desmond stares blankly at the card in his hand, surrounded by broken rubble, sparking wires, and dust. The Avengers shrink into the distance, leaving the poor local authorities to deal with the mess. At least they showed blue, though Iron Man was a blinding gold, which was useless. At most, Eagle Sense was telling him he could trust these idiots.

Just his luck.

(part of his brain wonders why the Avengers would be handling something so small, while the other half refuses to work.)

He cracks open the cocktail shaker that is still miraculously in his hand and chugs it.

\-----

Avengers Tower

“So, what do you think?” Tony smacks his hands on the table, pulling up the admittedly tiny file of the ‘person of interest’. There’s really nothing in it: just a name (Desmond Miles) and a flimsy and vague summary of his life. There are no school records, so he must have been homeschooled. Isn't that suspicious.

He’s clean, eerily so, with not even a speeding ticket to his name. No driver’s license, though there’s a motorcycle one.

The picture it makes isn’t particularly reassuring, combined with the fact the he didn’t exist before yesterday. Sure, the records are there, but there’s not even security footage dating before. Tony had already checked for tampering, but there’s none there either other than some unnatural movement that Jarvis pinged him on.

It’s a damn mystery, and he’s sure the kid must’ve lived like a naturalist or something. Cue flashbacks of attempted ‘family camping trips’ with Howard, and _cringe._ No Howard, it’s not camping with a yacht.

At times like this, he wishes the Force can speak to him, like it does with Luke or Anakin. Not that he needed more emotional baggage.

“All in all, he’s a ghost.” Clint breaks the contemplative silence. None of them fear this kid (“he’s 25!” “…still a kid.”), but rather what he can become. They’re all wound tight after Loki, and the knowledge settles deceptively heavy over them all. “I didn’t see him disappear during the fight.”

Despite shield’s access to traffic and security cams, they still were not able to track him. It was as if he had vanished off the face of the Earth. Or he knew where the cams were. Ooo, conspiracy within shield?

Natasha nods, eyes sharp. “He can fight. There were at least two knives on his body, within reach.” She ticks them off on her fingers. “His stance is balanced, and he didn’t seem the worried that he was outnumbered, if he saw us as enemies at all. He blended easily in the crowds. Definitely trained in combat and possibly espionage.”

Tony nods, pulling up footage from his suit. Their suspect stands in the middle of the carnage, looking extremely chill, if not annoyed, of all things. When he moves, it’s blink or you miss it—one second he’s there, and then he’s not, weaving through crowds.

“He was charismatic too.” Tony mumbles, thinking of the idle chatting Desmond was in with certain customers. “If he was pissed at any point, he didn’t show it.”

Bruce, in the back, seemed vaguely disoriented (he almost falls off his chair) but is quiet. Cap gives Tony a helpless look, and they all heave a collective sigh. Fury had come through not hours ago with a mission: an info collection disguised as a drug bust. Great job it did.

Clint looks appropriately grim, and Natasha is unusually quiet in the face of their wasted attempt. He doesn’t know what’s going on in their brains, but it can’t be pretty.

Tony isn’t really sure what he’s feeling. He’s met the guy, after all, and he seemed decent. A little distant maybe, but it all came with the job: you had to be to survive in a business like that.

Tony knows people, how they think and act from a lifetime of discreet grooming from Howard, ever the loving father. The loving father who took his 5-year-old son within him to talk illegal weapons trade.

This man, Desmond, may have not been pissed, but he was plenty annoyed, yet dealt with each patron with enough respect and flattery to make happy with even the moodiest of stupid rich brats. Or it was the good booze, but whatever.

Tony, dare he say it, _likes_ this man because anyone who can watch the Natasha triangle choke mafia men and look bored of all things is terrifying. He almost hopes there isn’t anything incriminating, except this is so interesting.

Far more interesting than threatening DUM-E with recycling, and okay, not as much as inventing, but still. It can’t be interesting without leads, and there’s none beyond the obvious unless they knew where he was—

Tony slams his face onto the table.

The Avengers stand, alarmed, and Tony feels a little warm for the concern. But mostly amused.

“I almost forgot! The business card I gave him is bugged!” Tony feels supremely smug, reveling in the almost admiration from his teammates. Almost, because all of them look dead on the inside at this point.

Natasha hits him on the side of the arm. “Not bad.”

_Ow. _That really shouldn’t have hurt as much as it did.

A map appears on the translucent screen, a blinking red dot indication of location. It’s comfortably in the darker parts of New York, stationary among glowing blue. They all stare at the dot for an uncomfortably long time, and Tony realizes they’ve somehow managed to go back to the beginning.

As in, they’ve got _nothing._ The bug function on the card would be useless, unless the kid talked to himself or something. Maybe next time he could ‘coincidentally’ meet the kid on the street or fire up his experimental drone/satellite monitoring software--

Then Fury has to call.

“Sir, incoming call from Director Fury.” Jarvis intones, voice somehow annoyed. Tony doesn’t remember programming that, but he approves.

Tony scrubs a hand down his face. “Pull him up.”

A high-definition image (too high for comfort) of Fury’s face layers on top of the map, red dot blinking through Fury’s nose. Clint snickers behind Tony, and he takes a second to marshal his face.

“Stark. What do you have on our person of interest?”

“Nothing, Rudolph.” There’s a definite laugh behind him.

“Don’t make me go there myself.”

“Wait wait wait! I….hiredhimasmybartender.” Shocked silence reigns behind him, and Tony realizes he hasn’t told them yet. He turns around and spreads his hands helplessly. “My perfectly nice bar was just gathering dust.” _Like Fury’s sense of humour, _he tries not to say.

“He’s a person of interest, and you hire him as your bartender.”

“Yup.” Tony pops the ‘p’. “Well, technically no. I gave him an offer he can’t refuse. Besides, he makes a damn good drink—” at Fury’s Look, he tacks on, “and we can track him if he’s close. It wasn’t one of my best ideas, but a better one.” He makes finger guns.

Clint seems reluctantly impressed, slipping him a discreet thumbs-up.

“Great. Job.” Natasha says blandly behind him, as if talking to an idiot. He can almost hear her eyeroll.

They don’t help Fury, despite him being their ultimate superior. Tony can’t read much into it, won’t, but somehow feels better with Friends. Friends, and isn’t that a foreign concept? As foreign as a proud Howard.

Tony’s gotten used to the murmurs behind his back, his playboy, weapons dealer reputation—after all, it deprived him of people he could truly trust, barring Pepper because he never regrets her. It’s strange, but he likes this new dynamic and feeling.

And now Fury’s staring at him, as if trying to fry him with his eyes. If Tony was a lesser man, he would have quailed.

There’s a muffled sigh, and the call ends abruptly. Tony gives himself a mental fist bump, because Fury forgot to give him instructions, which meant improvisation. A lot of it.

“Hmm. I think I’ve leveled up my ‘Pissing off Fury’ skill to max, now.” This time, Tony gets hit by Clint, who claps him on the back harder than strictly necessary, while leaving the room with Natasha.

“Tony,” Capsicle admonishes, though there’s no heat behind it. He leaves the room quickly as well, heading for the Training rooms because he’s that predictable. _And lonely, _Tony’s brain says, but he pushes it away.

It’s just the Big Guy and Tony left.

“So. We just have to wait for him to take up your offer?”

“Yeah.”

_I don’t know what to say.” _Bruce uncharacteristically makes a violent sound Tony’s never heard before, and he wonders vaguely if Bruce knows he’s a little green.

“You and me, buddy.”

You and me.

\-----

Desmond wakes on a ratty mattress, stray springs and acrid smell stinging. He bolts up, suddenly disoriented, because why was he alive where’s the Eye Juno—

To make it worse, the world starts to blur and waver, the old mattress he’s on flickering to prickly hay and his hand is in another’s, stars in the night sky glowing marbles, as Altair turns and looks into Maria’s beautiful eyes and tells her he loves hersmileeyesbladeshatterscreamswhywhy**WHY**

He takes deep breaths, focusing on the suspicious stains on the mattress. Hay can’t have clear stains. Mattresses don’t exist in Masyaf. His name is Desmond Miles, he’s 25 and lost in another universe. Desmond Miles, not Altaïr Ibn-La'Ahad.

The world realigns, and he falls back reeling from the Bleed, heart pounding a desperately and more unsettled than he should be. Strangely, he’s gone a whole day in this world without the Bleeding Effect, and it chooses to show up now. 

He also hasn’t seen hide or hair of Ezio, which is slightly disturbing. It feels strange, without his sly commentary on the various attractive females around him. Not that he missed it or anything.

And now he’s pitying himself for feeling weak, which somehow creates even more pity for the pity. Then again, he does have justification, albeit simple.

He’s lost, and fuck, he’s lonely.

Shaking his head, he flicks on Eagle Vision, feeling bored (and hungry, but he’d rather not open that can of worms). There are figures of neutral white-grey above him and to his right, separate rooms in the decrepit building, glowing clearly through walls. The sparse pedestrians outside are also white, but since he knew almost nothing about this dimension, _everyone_ showed white.

There are also patches of potential hiding spots scattered here and there, but he filters them out with a little concentration.

Desmond idly watches one of the figures, a tall, lanky man painted in blinding white, hunch over a desk. He knows that this man can help him find a decent forger for his yet-to-be-printed-almost-legit documents, though will charge a pretty penny.

The man above him, also a white, will be among the first of his information network, and one of the most important though will also charge him far too much. Why can’t it be as simple as Florence? A couple of coins and a nudge was enough for any.

Sometimes it really hits hard, how useful and uncanny Eagle Sense is.

He isn’t quite sure why Stark’s business card was glowing incandescent gold though. Obviously, Stark is important, but how? Should he assassinate him or something? It feels world shaking, profound, and deeply interconnected with who knows what. Something dangerous, probably.

The murky grey begins to distort slightly, darkness shifting the moving shadows cast by a fire, faint light shining on clay pots and animal furs. The scene twists, then it’s his(?) Blade embedded in the neck of a gold silhouette, then flicking blood off the blade as the target falls limp. Desmond slams his eyes shut, breathing shaky as cold sweat lines his back.

Dammit, Ratonhnhaké:ton. He rises from the mattress before stumbling into the not-kitchen, because calling it a kitchen would be a travesty. The entire place is grimy and dusty, but it's not like he hasn't lived in worse. 

Quickly munching on an apple he’d stolen from the bar earlier (oh, the irony) that was still intact, he (metaphorically) rolls up his sleeves.

If Desmond is going to stay here, he’s going to have to establish himself (then fucking buy an apartment or something, this place really triggers a lot-).

This is going to be a long ride.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry guys, the face to face confrontation's going to be in a while. I have no update schedule, so.   
until next time?


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have low self-confidence and no idea how the world works
> 
> please help

“I need information.” Shit, he never was good at code.

The man edges further from the door, unkempt and feral. He licks his lips.

“What kind of information?” his voice is raspy from disuse and who-knows-what.

“All of it.”

“…I can’t do that.” They both know that’s not true.

“I want to know the major groups around here, their leaders, intentions. I want to _know._” Desmond decides to add a little more incentive, idly taking out his wallet. When he says those rich kids were rich, they were _rich. _The man’s eyes follow the wallet, before stating a number.

“5,000.”

“Deal.” Desmond says. Haggling with this man would only drive him away, as much as it cost. He supposes he can think of it as an investment. “Tell your friends.”

The man waves him into his room, and spills.

Well, not all of it, because lives are on the line, but Holy _shit._ Who knew there were so many circles underground, tucked away through precarious tower of bribes and dirty money.

_And he’s going to have to visit every single one of them._

_\-----_

They start noticing after 4th drug dealer he talks with (re: beats up).

“Who the hell are you?!” A thug shouts, holding a feeble hand over a bleeding eye.

“Someone who will kill you,” Desmond says, staring at his nails in a totally not bratty at all Altair move. Of all things he picks up from his ancestors, Shawn says he's picked up the worst (he said it fondly? Maybe?).

He kicks one of the unconscious bodies away, before moving forward, heedless of the face he just stepped on. Fucking with people was surprisingly fun. He’s sure one of his ancestors had it as a pastime, but the animus filters out so much of the interesting parts.

“You should start running.”

The thug whimpers.

Three hours later, the thug comes back with a veritable army of men and women, armed to the teeth with cold weapons as to not attract attention. Tensed muscles, tightly clenched weapons, they seem to be most the shady people in the area banded together under the banner of Revenge.

It’s still unbearably crude—there’s a thousand ways they could take him down without lifting a finger, but he approves. The assassin genes in him agrees better safe than sorry, better alive than the job done. (not that you shouldn’t take risks, but the general idea is there.)

They herd him into a suspiciously empty warehouse, and he lets them. he’s still not keen on law enforcement finding him.

The criminals charge, and Desmond meets them head-on. He kicks the bat out of a woman’s hands, knocks her out with a quick punch to the temple, then grabs the bat to block the sloppy swing to his chest, before bringing him down with a sharp jab in the gut.

It’s all harmlessly non-lethal, leaving the unconscious bodies with complimentary bruises and a gift-wrapped nightmare. After all, it’s better to leave witnesses, and dead bodies were a hassle to clean up.

With every person that goes down, Desmond feels lighter. It’s been so long since he could push like this, flow from move to move without thinking in the density of bodies, feeling the puff of breath and bones give under his fists. They’re nowhere as skilled as even a basic, ‘I was recruited 5 minutes ago’ Templar lackey, but they make it up with ample numbers that he’s happy to cut down.

The lights flicker off, and Desmond flicks on Eagle vision, clear as ever even in the dark. All of a sudden, palpable fear leeches into the tension of the remaining fighters, which is less than a handful.

“_Demon.”_ The word echoes, bouncing off the walls in an eerie whisper, clouds obscuring the moon. Desmond grins wide. The men, terrified and cold, latch onto the word like drowning men to a lifeboat.

“_Demon!” _one of them shouts, then darts to the escape. Like water breaking though a dam, they scramble backwards and over their fallen comrades. Desmond is left surrounded by prone forms, with only moonlight spilling past dusty windows.

_kill them, _a voice that sounds remarkably like Altaïr hisses. _Traitors. Like Al Mualim. Like—_

the rays of moonlight flicker and wane, and he sees flashes of open ocean, shifting sands, clogged streets. Altaïr stands beside him, proud and pained, before turning to him with an unreadable look in his eyes and flickering away.

A snort barely makes it past his lips, and his fists clench over hidden blades.

They don’t bother him after that.

\-----

“1000.” Wow, that was a lot cheaper than he thought, and it must have shown on his face.

The guy? Girl? Makes him a face and snaps their overly stickered laptop closed with a click of nails. Man, Eagle Vision was vague about this.

“I can get you what you want, and it’ll be quality.” They say, mistaking the look on his face for disdain. Their roommate, a college kid who looks like he’s going to die slumps into the room for a midnight snack.

“The cookies are in the fridge,” forger person murmurs without looking away from Desmond, “Put it back, dipshit.”

There’s a grunt, and a muffled “love you too” before the shuffling silhouette disappears into one of the rooms.

Glad he’s never had to go to college. From what he can pick from Clay’s Adderall-crazed rants, college is as fun as getting hit by a truck. Every single day, for years, until the truck turns into a train.

Desmond reclines on the ratty couch, relaxed, having already checked for threats. They’re glowing white with tentative blue, and Desmond and sense their cooperation isn’t going to be a one-time thing.

“When can I have it?” Desmond asks, picking at a stray thread on the couch.

“Soon enough.” They roll their eyes, somehow looking annoyed even when half of their face is discreetly covered.

After leaving his contact information, (_say, “everything is permitted” to the man in the brick building 3 blocks away, then hand over message. _“What the fuck is this? And why is it so damn extra? I know you live right under me.” “…Oh yeah.”)

Desmond also buys a possibly stolen laptop off of forger person and a very very modified stark phone. Sure, apple was trash, but at least he was used to it. All these holograms and whatnot drudged up some really bad memories.

_Like there’s not enough of those._

Speaking of apple, somehow, Nokia exists here too. He’s toying with the idea of getting one, ‘cause a good reliable Nokia phone is like a brick he can carry around without looking suspicious. Wait no, he still doesn’t have physical id yet. What a shame.

He climbs down the stairs silently, slipping easily into shadows before quickly entering his room and laying, for good measure, a wire trap. Who knew Connor’s snares would have such practical use.

He collapses on the musty mattress, pulling the ragged curtains closed and casting a brief glance over his untampered belongings, the business card where he left it. Finally, for some real research, if sleep doesn’t get him first.

Impatient, Desmond cracks the laptop open.

Then slams it shut, grimacing.

Thanks, forger person for the now confirmed stolen unwiped laptop. He never wanted to know that human bodies could bend that way. At all.

With lightening speed, he closes the desecration of humanity playing loudly, and scans through the laptop feeling scandalized, something he’s never felt nor wanted to feel before.

Who the hell saved 70 folders of porn?

Combing quickly through the files, he finds a strange folder intelligently labeled ‘passwords’. Sure enough, there’s passwords to every single account listed on it, and he spots many passwords that are ‘password’. How… incredibly stupid. He can almost hear Shawn having a seizure, and then the hourlong lecture that comes after. It’s really a new level of idiocy.

Desmond wipes the computer, thoroughly. Then does it again for good measure.

Finally sound in heart and mind, he forays into the wonders of the internet, searching for anything that might concern Abstergo and the templars and his friends though _there’s really no point in trying as they’re a dimension away—_

He might as well finish what he started.

The search, just as he expects, comes up inconclusive with the extremely thorough digging. But even if he knows it’s not possible, it doesn’t hurt any less. Desmond scrolls through articles about the crusaders and the Templars, of the Hashashins that were wiped off the map in a long, arduous war. Everything was the same, yet different, and the parallel rips him apart. No. This is all wrong.

He tilts his head back against the ratty mattress, feeling world weary. There’s Rebecca in his ear, voice on the edge of her classic, unconscious nag.

“_Don’t worry about it too much. You always bounce back._”

It’s not much of a choice, is it?

\-----

It’s days when he scrounged up enough courage to go back to the computer, which in hindsight seemed silly: he’s fought lifetimes of crooks, sadistic bastards and the unscrupulous corrupt yet a machine scares him a little.

He has a good reason though. There’s so much he wants to know…and doesn’t.

As he begins building a digital network, his budding physical information network brings him information, a tiny woman almost choked by the wiretrap at his doorway right when he forgot it was there. Oops.

Establishing himself digitally, writing programs… it’s ridiculously easy for him. Now, he’s pretty sure the apple gave him more than he wanted, and he’s not sure if he likes it. Desmond’s even catching himself absentmindedly calculating the trajectory of a stray rock, and _no. _That’s Clay’s or even Leonardo’s territory, and there’s enough shit in his life without wondering what responsibility the information gives him.

Call Desmond a coward, but he really doesn’t want to think about it.

He spends days buzzing up in that stuffy room, eating his slowly dwindling stores of snacks and doing the classic unofficial Assassin training regimen.

Even Eagle Vision can’t save his computer-blinded eyes now.

When he gets too stuffy holed up in his (temporary) den, he goes running. Which happens to be a lot. The thugs who used to routinely jump him has stopped, and he almost misses them.

As he jumps from roof top to roof top, security cameras neon flashes in his eagle vision, he focuses on the earthly things. Long times on the chase with Abstergo and frenzied animus trips has taught him to enjoy the little things: the fact that he’s alive. He’s even slightly better than okay. It’s a little suspicious, because nothing ever goes right in his life.

Sometimes he encounters crime on his runs, and briefly dispatches them before continuing his run. Naturally, because of the area, this meant many, many stops.

There’s so much desolation here. If he was still in his dimension, this would be what the world would be like, after he saved it. If he saved it. Still strife with crime, with death and sin: sometimes he wonders if it was even worth it, fighting the same war as all those before him. Working from the shadows, fighting, dying and never receiving recognition.

It’s fine. Desmond never did it for the recognition anyway.

He doesn’t know what he did it for.

By the time he shoves his 6th thief against the wall, the sky is already fading into inky blue, streetlamps casting a shady glow right outside the dark alley, like a light at the end of the tunnel.

He looks regretfully at the thief cowering against the wall, shrinking away from him. Too bad there wasn’t a guild of thieves like there was in Ezio’s time. Pickpockets and such were often the most desperate of people, and a little trust and coin can go a long way with them. (if they didn’t backstab you first.)

Desmond leans against the damp stone of the alleyway, eyes piercing through the glare of light pollution into the night sky above.

Maybe he’ll finally take up Stark’s offer.

…nah.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think it'll happen next chapter? Maybe?


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> haha, I'm not dead, though I wish  
I've been procrastinating, so here's an extra-long chapter (was supposed to be two, but...)

It’s quiet. Too quiet, and all they’ve gotten was a highly suspicious anonymous tip to the police that led to a warehouse of stirring men, many of which were on NY police department’s wanted list and seemed to be half of the underground scene.

By the time Tony makes useless upgrades to his suit, programs the Elvis dance into iron legion, and tries to equip rocket thrusters onto Clint’s bow (“I’m taking this.” “Why, Nat!? Why do you do this to me?” Clint whines.) the Captain decides it’s time for a distraction.

“We, as a team, are going on an excursion.” Cap declares to where Tony is scribbling something on a sleeping Bruce’s face. Tony looks up, with a look that couldn’t be anything but frazzled.

“Sorry to break it to you, Cap, but no one uses ‘excursion’ anymore.” Tony smacks Bruce, and the man wakes with a mumble and groan. Cap’s eyebrows lift, and his face takes an expression Tony’s never seen before. Nat, who feeds of off suffering, pokes her head into the room, looking disinterested. But Tony knows that glint in her eye better than his suit’s programming.

Steve clears his throat. “I use excursion.” He says defensively. “Jarvis, could you please notify Fury of our trip? It’s going to be _fun._”

“_The Nation’s Darling _my ass.” Tony drawls, but gets up all the same. “It’s getting stuffy in here anyway.” Damn, who knew _Captain America_ could be threatening. This is surreal.

But hey, if you live with a Norse god, 2 assassins, and a green rage monster, a 97 year-old cryogenically preserved symbol of America can be scary.

\-----

Desmond runs out of hoodies. And food, but that’s not important.

_He runs out of hoodies _and it’s not okay. Part of his brain tells him it’s a good chance to go back into the world when it’s not in the middle of the night, and the other half wants to bury itself back into the computer that he’s practically attached to.

For his sanity, he goes for the first option, reluctantly.

He leaves the dank building. The light outside is…bright. Brighter than the Eye, brighter than his soul.

It feels vulnerable, somehow, without his hoodie, even in the first breaths of clean air (as clean as NYC can be). This is proof he’s really not okay and he really needs another one as soon as possible—Rebecca had always called his hoodie addiction dangerous. With quick mental calibration, he heads to the closest clothes store.

The bell jingles when he enters, and the young store clerk mumbles a quick welcome, before she stares at him with a laser interest.

“It’s been a while!” she says, a terrible look in her eyes. Desmond draws a blank, until it hits him. This was the lady that traumatized him enough to thank God, of all celestial apparitions, and again, God, help him.

He feels the blood drain out his face, and he thumbs the knife in his pocket. The saleslady is now staring at him like a fanatic and he needs to leave—now.

(He’s heard from Rebecca, before she was recruited into the assassins. The onslaught of sales quotas, nagging customers, and protocol that endorsed borderline stalking is still echoing in his ears.)

Who cares about his hoodies, his life is more important. Distantly, he hears Connor agree.

“I’ve got just the perfect thing for you!” she chirps, her blond hair bobbing with her toxic enthusiasm as she begins to stride towards the back room. Her gait is noticeably faster than what is considered appropriate indoors. “Wait here!”

Desmond would be stupid if he didn’t try to escape. Apparently, master assassin speed can’t match up to a woman on a mission, and with a foot out the door, eagle sense tells him of the threat right behind him. He turns and sees the demonic light in her eyes, flashing with a type of terrifying glee. Desmond suddenly understands what it feels like to be a Templar crony getting beaten up by a master assassin.

It’s not a good feeling.

“Where do you think you’re going?” The cheery voice came straight from hell.

Why did the hell did the Isu invent mankind?

\-----

Tony strolls across the well-worn paths of central park, beside Bruce and Clint. They’re all wearing some form of disguise, though Tony’s is a simple baseball cap pulled low. He’s pretty sure he wears his signature sunglasses so much that people won’t even recognize him without it.

He’s right.

Out of all them, Bruce is somehow the most suspicious, sporting smeared marker tattoos scrawled on his face. Tony’s proud of that one.

“Wow!” he says, clapping his hands. “D’you think we’ll meet our mysterious friend?”

Bruce seems too engrossed with the prospect of actually being outside to answer, while Clint shrugs. “I dunno. His MO is all over the place. There’s a higher chance Nat and Steve will meet him, and I’m only here because you promised me that you would buy me some of them delicious donuts.” His eyebrows tick. In annoyance or anticipation, Tony can’t tell.

Tony squints, because he can’t remember making that promise. Then again, Pepper always says there is nothing but questionable things and technology floating in his brain. He objects, because there’s definitely food somewhere in that mess.

“I thought we still had three boxes?” he deflects, because he most certainly did not eat any of those donuts. Jarvis will back him up when worst comes to worst; he’s programmed to be the best bro out of best bros.

“I used one for archery practice, and the last two are AWOL.”

Tony opens his mouth to defend his honour and to ask why donuts are necessary for archery, when a quiet voice interjects.

“I think Thor took them to Asgard, saying that they were “the appropriate offerings of Midgard”, or something similar.” Bruce scratches the back of his head, curling in a little bit from the attention.

Something skeptical flits across Clint’s face, and Tony can feel his eyebrows climbing. He’s not sure what to feel—the idea that donuts were the food now representative of Earth, or the fact that Thor thought it was okay to take two entire boxes. Honestly, it was a travesty; pizza should represent Earth.

Bruce shrinks a little more.

Man, for a massive green rage monster, he’s shyer than the Captain at a nude beach (and wasn’t that fun to watch. He pulls up the footage sometimes, when he wants to laugh at something, and Natasha snickers with him. They bond over suffering). Clint, most likely thinking the same thing (sans nude beach?), slaps a hand on Bruce’s back.

The marker mustache on Bruce’s face stretches with his wince.

“Relax. We’re still alive, and I’m still being paid right now. Enjoy the trip while it lasts.” Clint does jazzhands and a strange spasm. “Who knows the next time when—” his voice drops low, “Captain Fury lets us off the boat.”

Bruce makes a strained noise.

Tony stretches his neck, putting his hands in his pockets. He’s actually kind of jealous of Clint. Sure, he works for SHIELD and all, and they _are_ asses of the highest degree, but he has freedom. SHIELD is the worst kept secret in all of America, but none of their agents are public faces, like Tony. Sometimes, he wants to scream.

What’s the point of being a billionare if you couldn’t even endorse a meme in public without outrage and terrifying lectures from PR? That one time Tony wanted to set off exploding ducks full of photos of him surfing in a potato suit(He still doesn’t know why the idea even ended up in his brain, but it would’ve been _glorious)_ and he’s not allowed to appear in public for _months._ The injustice.

He perks up suddenly, the idea hitting his brain harder than Nat’s fists. It could work. Clint and Bruce will agree, or he’ll mercilessly cut the Friday Avengers movie nights. People underestimate the <strike>torture </strike>_creative_ methods of a genius.

Clint and Bruce walk in comfortable, oblivious silence for a while, enjoying the greenery, steering away from prying eyes.

Tony plots.

This is going to be a great day.

______

This is a horrible day. Theoretically, it should have gone perfectly, or at least well, but Murphy’s Law was a fickle thing. Natasha had chosen Steve as her partner to chat (interrogate is too strong a word) with the inhabitants of the areas their POI frequented.

Steve, while physically intimidating, is gentle in demeanor. Few would not recognize him, and fewer would refuse his earnest honesty.

Herself, because the entire ‘chat’ would end up more of a tea party than anything worth their time if Steve did the talking. More than that, she is diminutive in structure, and the presence of a woman makes the situation softer and gives the overall effect of approachability.

Her assignments taught her to quickly to take advantage of what she has, and gender roles are particularly easy to harness. Though much of this is thanks to the sheeple of world.

Yet, there was nothing of value to be found.

Slightly dejected (only Steve), they walk up the cracked, stained sidewalk of the neighborhood. Natasha clears her mind, shares a look with Steve, and knocks on their seventh door. The door opens the tiniest crack, and the wary, dark eyes of a woman appear.

“Can I help you?” Natasha hears a heavy Spanish accent, casual and rough. Perhaps an immigrant family or one that places heavy importance in their culture. She molds her face into one of kindness. (A look that, long ago, was impossible to find.)

A softer approach would have to do. She doesn’t know this woman, and therefore possesses no useful leverage to use against her. A challenging position to play, but easy in front of a civilian.

“Good evening, Ma’am.” Steve nods gently, radiating reliability. It seems to startle the woman behind the door, as the crack widens to show a face. Early forties, and a menial worker judging by the hands. Her dark curls were tucked behind her ears, and her stooped back showed years of hard labour. “We’re here to ask a few questions.”

The woman casts a long glance at Steve, flinching with recognition at his face, then at Natasha, before ushering them inside. She doesn’t stand on ceremony, and directly asks them their motive. Bold, meaning the job can be done quicker.

Natasha’s face begins to cramp with the smile, and she strains to keep it natural. First impressions are near impossible to override and will be crucial in this role.

With a gentle expression and a nod, she leaves most of the talking to Steve and quickly scans the humble house. A carved statuette of crucified Jesus sits on the mantle, next to photos of a young, dirt smeared boy beaming at the camera. A nephew or a son, perhaps.

Beside it is a worn, black and white photo of a beautiful bride in a simple white dress, hands intertwined with a handsome man in a black suit, frayed where the edges showed in the frame. They glow with happiness.

There was a clear resemblance between the woman the in the photo, and the one in front of Natasha.

Maybe buried under dirt and steel, ashes and a bone-deep weariness, but still the same woman.

An obviously cherished memory of the woman’s marriage, although the lack of more photos of the man suggests his death. The furniture is homey and slightly ratty, yet impeccably clean.

“We want to know if there’s anything happening in the neighborhood,” Steve says. He sits down slowly. Natasha recognizes this as a tactic of submission, lowering his position in front of the woman, who is still standing. She knows Steve recognizes it as well: one can’t survive a war without fighting both sides.

The woman instantly becomes guarded, shoulders squaring as her chin lifts slightly in defiance.

Steve sees this and softens his voice, blue eyes clear. While Steve may have no clue of the happenings of the modern world, he’s sharp with the people. “What’s your name?” he asks, with nothing but sincerity. The women lowers her guard—Natasha’s lips twitch in victory.

“Adriana.” She replies, tentative.

Steve nods. “Adriana, we only want to check up on the folks around here. I’ve been out of it for 50 years, after all.” He beams, the smile far more genuine than what can be found in textbooks or his biography. Natasha gives a reassuring smile as well, the smile feeling foreign on her face. It’s been far too long since any amusing honeypot mission.

Natasha drops the smile behind a hand, resting her aching face for a few seconds. He’s appealing to Adriana’s sense of duty and obligation, using emotion. As usual, with his intuition. She suspects this is a large part of what makes him a natural leader.

When she sees Steve make to engage in further small talk, she nudges him gently. It’s done to look like an exchange between close friends and a reminder of the tight, non-existent schedule they’re on.

Adrianna carefully regards them again, a small curve growing on her lips.

She finally warms, ushering them into the kitchen, where she fixes them two cups of tea. Natasha habitually checks for poisons, then sips as a sign of trust. Steve directly takes a large gulp with a heartfelt thanks. Natasha, even after knowing Steve for a decent amount of time, doesn’t know how he’s still alive.

Adriana’s worn hands curl over the ceramic of her mug, and her eyes flick occasionally to the picture of the boy. She’s nervous about something, most likely about her nephew/son (is he sick or hurt?). Natasha decides she needs some coaxing.

“Can you please tell me about what’s troubling you? We’re here to help.” To reinforce her statement, Natasha gingerly places a light hand on one of Adriana’s. Steve gives her a soft nod of encouragement. Adriana’s eyes tremble briefly as she heaves a heavy sigh, a hand reaching to tug at her apron in a nervous tic.

“You see, this isn’t the safest neighborhood.” The tugging intensifies. “But rent’s cheap, and we have a community. There’s a preschool near here, and I walk my little David to school and back. I work all day, but we always get back before night. We can make it.” She says the last part more to herself than to both of them.

“It was last week. I had to work overtime—there was this horrible spill in a house I work at. David was waiting at the preschool with Ms. Lee, and we walked home together as usual. But it was dark. None of us talk about it, but we all know.” Adriana’s pale fingers clench. She sets down the mug with trembling hands and takes the tissue offered by Steve. She takes another deep breath.

“I tried to go home quickly, but they saw me. I could see them following me street after street, and I didn’t know how to run with David with me. Later, I realized I made a wrong turn. I was in a small alley, and there was a man in the entrance. I couldn’t see clearly and pushed David behind me. I kept thinking I would be like Sarina, gone and no one to care.

He comes closer and closer and I close my eyes and pull David close—he’s crying now and so am I—then there’s white.” Adriana’s eyes open wide as she gestures with unforeseen, enthusiastic animation. Natasha tries to look as if she’s not hanging on every word, but it’s hard when they finally gleaned something.

Steve’s blue eyes match Adriana’s open excitement.

“The man falls, and I see an angel in white and red. _Dios M__ío, _I cried.” She clasps her hands together. “I try to thank him, but he was gone. _Bastardo._” Her chest puffs in anger as Adriana follows with some expletives at her mysterious savour.

“David wanted to thank him. He still talks all about it.” She gestures towards the simple drawings stuck to the fridge. Natasha discreetly tucks some hair behind her ears, revealing ‘pearl’ earrings—they’re miniature cameras. They capture the drawings on the fridge: a man in a red a white hoodie, with most likely blades in his hands depicted in crayon.

Steve hands Adriana another tissue for an unknown reason.

This…was certainly progress. Their POI isn’t hostile unless himself or innocents threatened, contrary to what a warehouse of unconscious idiots may think. There’s an opportunity to negotiate and barter, to fight. Petty thieves and criminals have no particular skill. Nevertheless, it takes some training to put them down as quickly as Adriana described.

She now has a rough profile of their mystery man, which is more information gathered in an hour than their past weeks of effort combined.

Natasha’s quietly ecstatic. Their lack of information has been on her nerves for the last few weeks. SHIELD is not all-powerful, and it’s a wonderful thing that she likes to rub in Fury’s face. This mission is proof, and she looks forward to the possible beatdown in the future.

Training alone isn’t enough—her new widow’s bites haven’t been tested yet, and Fury, in a brief moment of stupidity, thought that she is excused from routine drills and missions as an Avenger. She smirks, and watches Adriana and Steve recoil. Adriana regrets telling them anything (clear in her furrowed brows), while Steve hurries to reassures and distract her.

Natasha’s slipping but she doesn’t care because—

_This is going to be fun._

\---

In a flight of fancy, Tony drags Bruce and Clint to the police station holding the “idiot thugs” (Tony’s contribution). It’s surprisingly close to the park, and Bruce can’t think of a viable reason to leave. The big guy is more pushy than usual, clawing to the forefront of his mind in a way that makes him wince.

“You okay there, buddy?” Tony takes off his sunglasses to get a closer look. Bruce winces again, running a hand through his hair. His roommate is just as excited as he is to be outside, not for the same reasons.

_Not now, big guy, _he projects, realizing that they are in the middle of a crowded street and in front of a police station. _Later, I’ll let you smash._

The feeble promise works, and the big guy uncharacteristically retreats. Bruce heaves a sigh, and lets the tension drain from his shoulders. He refocuses, taking long, deep breathes in the way his SHIELD therapist suggested.

Even Clint’s now looking at him worriedly, with a lifted eyebrow that says, “are you okay do we need to get you out of here can you walk” all in a single second. He shakes his head, brushes Tony’s hand off his shoulders.

Tony shrugs, and puts on his sunglasses.

He’s not some sort of monster (he is.) and he has no need for the babysitting (he does.). Bruce is better than the big guy, no matter how useless he feels on the team or how little he, as _Bruce, _can contribute to protecting the city. For a man with seven PhDs, it hurts.

He tells himself he can do this, and steps inside the police station with Tony and Clint.

As usual, Tony swaggers to the reception desk, taking off his sunglasses and hat again. The young receptionist gasps, reaching for her phone then aborting the motion in a battle of professionalism vs. _oh my god it’s Tony Stark._ Her face is still conflicted when Tony leans against the desk, casual.

“Hey, so, can I see those idiot thugs from the warehouse captured yesterday? I have some important business.” Tony waggles his eyebrows in a way that he probably thinks is attractive, but really isn’t. Bruce feels the hulk agree in a rare moment of solidarity. Clint makes an unsubtle wheeze.

The woman’s starstruck look instantly disappears, replaced by impressive focus. “On whose authority?” she asks, a hand probably resting on the panic button. Bruce really hopes she doesn’t, because a) it’s Tony Stark, and b) The hulk does not like loud noises. Or threats.

Tony, ever the dramatic, pulls out a SHIELD badge with a flourish. A badge that Bruce vaguely remembers comes with a warning to only use it worst case scenario; he also vaguely remembers Tony telling Fury to “Suck it”.

The receptionist pauses. Bruce begins to think she has no idea what she’s looking at, then she leads them down the hall, passing them off to an officer with some whispered words.

They soon reach the holding cells and Bruce has to blink twice. Clint whistles behind him with a mumble of “whoa.”

Bruce is no medical professional, as fancy as those doctorates may seem. However, science is an interconnected subject, and with as many degrees as he has, he knows his way around a human body. (and too many haphazard field operations on the Widow and Hawkeye.)

It’s daunting. There’s cells and cells filled to the brim with men that look haggard, many of which sport bandages and casts. They look collectively haunted, and he sees many symptoms that suggest extreme weight loss in a short time period, even PTSD.

Bruce is sure his expression of disbelief is mirrored on his friends’ faces, though they do a good job of hiding it.

“Go ahead,” Clint tells Bruce. “I’m not touching this with a 10 foot pole.”

Bruce feels immensely unqualified for the situation. Tony is a billionaire and Clint is a trained special agent after all, and he’s a….doctor.

It all makes sense now.

Dispirited, Bruce scans the cells for the most lucid witness. He crouches as he spots one: a thin, spooked man in his thirties, clutching a bible with a death grip. The other guy rumbles in impatience.

“Hello. Could you tell me what happened in the warehouse?” Bruce’s frustration prevents him from easing into the conversation.

The man’s eyes are glassy and unfocused, until they jump to his face as his hands claw at his skin at the sound of his voice. Tony makes the unnecessary comment of “ew.”

The scratching stops. The man blinks slowly, as if processing his words, before abruptly spinning into a frenzy, limbs flying in the confined space of too many bodies. His bandaged fingers grip the bars, knuckles stretching white and gauze bleeding red.

“The demon! He’s coming! No! _NO!_” he chokes out with spittle, dry heaving on the ground. His legs thrash. “Get away from me! Get away!” Bruce must focus to hear the almost incomprehensible words.

The other cells, movement begins to stir with “Demon” as the trigger. “Don’t…!” a man wails in some other cell. Unease ripples through the hall.

The man devolves into a trembling mess, retreating into a corner. No matter what Bruce says, he doesn’t respond with his gaze fixed on the ground and a constant stream of deranged tirade. Out of everything he’s said so far, it’s the expression of pure terror that strikes Bruce the most.

“That wasn’t ominous at all.” Tony remarks behind Bruce, cutting the quiet. The officer who had been a silent bystander finally responds.

“Every one of them is like that.”

“Really?” Tony sounds incredulous.

“Yes, we have questioned the less injured, and the results are the same.”

That couldn’t be realistic. Yet, the big guy believed in the officer. Animalistic as the Hulk is, he’s got sharper instincts than all of them combined.

Who, or _what_ is Desmond Miles?

Clint frowns and condenses their entire experience into a sound and two words.

“Huh. That’s new.”

\-----

After the rather successful visit to the police station, Tony thinks they deserve some food for their work. They came out to take a walk and still ended up with more intel. It’s so not because he’s scared of Fury’s nagging on misuse of resources, and stalling, of course not. Who would be afraid of that pirate cosplayer who owns a massive, global militaristic organization?

Not Tony, he’s an adult. Also, Fury’s nags have nothing on a drunk Howard.

Clint suggests an out-of-the-way ice cream parlor and leads the way. Tony, not far from his default state, is a bit peeved. He used to know every nook and cranny of the city, but that was before he was iron man, before the publicity caught up to him.

He’s still caught up in his thoughts when he bumps straight into Clint’s back. Tony, being the adult, opens his mouth to complain—then he sees what Clint is probably seeing. He rubs his eyes. As an afterthought, he nudges Bruce.

The irony of the situation.

Across the street, holding shopping bags, is their POI. Even though their he’s is too far away to hear, they see his mouth form the sounds.

“Shit,” says Desmond Miles.

**Author's Note:**

> I've never actually played the games through, so some suggestions would be great.


End file.
